


Anniversary

by pacifyingtae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pacifyingtae/pseuds/pacifyingtae
Summary: Sherlock stopped to look up. He knew he was close, there was no need in stopping now. But he looked up anyway. Indeed, he was very close to his destination. A shaky breath escaped his lips, as he started walking again, this time his eyes following the entrance to the field.





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this to Sanne, Sasha, Noa and Sara!
> 
> I would also like to thank Em for the help!
> 
> I hope you lot who are reading this are in for pain ;)  
> There is actually a song that fits this very well, which is Brave Enough by Lindsey Stirling

This day wasn’t one of the brightest. The sun wasn’t shining, the sky was overcast with dark clouds, making it all gloomy. Was it eleven am or two pm - you couldn’t tell. The weather felt as if it needed just few moments and then it will rain. It was cold. January was always cold. The air surrounding everybody was heavy. No snow, just damp ground. The temperature was just below zero.

Sherlock was making his way through the city. Strong wind blew right into his curls, his hair flying all over the place. He was looking down, eyes fixed on the ground. It’s not like he needed to see where he was going, he knew the way all too well. He didn’t pay attention to his surroundings either. He could hear people, but he didn’t acknowledge them. Sherlock didn’t care about them. There, a boy running. Maybe he was thirteen or fourteen years old. He was running, in a rush. Maybe he missed his bus, maybe he had somewhere to be, maybe he was buying drugs. Who knew?

Another man walked by. He was in a suit, Sherlock could see his trousers. He figured maybe the guy was a businessman.

A teenager behind Sherlock was getting impatient so he just walked around him. Or was it she? Or both? Who knew? Sherlock would have, but he didn’t look up he didn’t deduce them. He just ignored it all, minding his own business.

In his hand, a black velvet violin case. His collar was not up, the blue scarf tied loosely around his neck. Red eyes, he hasn’t eaten in days nor had any sleep. Sherlock looked like a mess. He was tired and had black circles under his eyes. He didn’t get enough sleep this week. Maybe he had some sleep two days before today, but Sherlock wasn’t sure. It was that week, that day. Just a week before this particular day always made him into a big mess, because the day meant something. It wasn’t a good meaning, it wasn’t a good memory. So, no, this day wasn’t one of the brightest. And not because of the weather. This day was different. It may have meant happiness for you, but for some people it was only death.

Sherlock stopped to look up. He knew he was close, there was no need in stopping now. But he looked up anyway. Indeed, he was very close to his destination. A shaky breath escaped his lips, as he started walking again, this time his eyes following the entrance to the field. He finally reached the gate. It was closed, rusty metal gate that seemed to not hold any purpose anymore. Slowly, he reached with his hand to open it, but saw it shaking. He looked at it for a few seconds, his mind racing with unwanted memories he would rather not remember right now, but today was that day. He quickly clenched his hand into a fist and lowered it down, opening the gate with the help of his shoulder.

This place was all too familiar. The field was the same, never changing. He hated this place. He hated this day. This was the most horrible day in the year and Sherlock always came here, every year. Of course, he visited this place more than once in a year, but only one time with a violin.

Sherlock took one step and then stopped. This happened always. It was getting harder for him to breathe. He could feel his hand shake even more. He got a bit worried, because how will he play the violin if his hand was shaking so much? He cursed at himself and took one step forward, but stopped again. The aching pain in his chest got bigger. Sherlock was sure that it wasn’t there before, but here it is again. Always back when he entered this place. But he couldn’t stop now. He was here, he had only one thing to do and then he could go. Sherlock took a big breath and slowly started walking down the path. The familiar grey gravel path. The one that brought even more sorrow. The one that crunched under his feet. The path that was wet because of the rain.

Sherlock slowly made his way towards one particular place, with his eyes closed, his head lowered down again. He didn’t need to see where he was going. Everything was calculated long time ago, he knew this path too well. He calculated his steps, all the turns, he knew how many minutes it will take for him to walk and when he will need to stop. But he really did not want to stop and look at the evidence. He did not want to look reality in the eyes all over again. It pained him to remember why he was here. Every year. On the same day, same place, with violin. For the past 5 years.

He slowed, counting his last steps. Making the moment even longer than it was before, stretching the time, bracing himself. All these emotions. The ones that were bottled up for the longest time. Eventually, Sherlock stopped. He slowly put the case on the ground. He himself crouched down, touched the damp grass with his bare hand. It was cold, but Sherlock felt as if cold was the only good emotion at the moment. Though, he ignored the coldness. Sherlock didn’t even flinch. Then he slowly stood up, his head still lowered down. He sighed, a cold steam leaving his mouth as he did so.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and blinked a few times. His eyes fixed on the words that were written in gold. A rush of emotions went through him. Anger, pain, sadness, sorrow, self-pity. It was all one big pain. He could feel his eyes water, but he didn’t give in.

Sherlock wished there to be a switch so he could turn off his emotions and get to his life before all of this. But, of course, it’s impossible. He can’t turn off his emotions like Mycroft could. He’s not good enough. He’s stupid, Mycroft always told him that. He was just a little boy and he is one now. A lost boy, who wishes for love. Love that is not accessible to him anymore. Was, but not anymore.

And there it is. A black marble gravestone. With a name engraved on it. No date, no quote, nothing, only a name. Sherlock’s heart started to beat faster. His breath hitched, pain spreading through his whole chest. Sherlock never believed he loved someone so much, not until he heard about what happened. He never thought he could love him so much, no matter how much he denied it. But he did. Sherlock loved him even if he denied it, even if he tried to hide it from everybody. What he never thought about was that there will be a day when he will see this name on a gravestone. He didn’t even think about it. Not until it happened. And Sherlock wasn’t even there for the funeral. He hated himself for that. He hated himself in general. He will hate himself until his last day. He will never forgive himself. Because he was the one whose fault it was. This gravestone appeared because of him.

 

_John Hamish Watson._

 

A painful reminder to all. To Sherlock. He closed his eyes and looked down. He could feel panic and his heart rate rising. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He could feel himself shaking, hearing his pounding heart. Sherlock knew what was happening and he tried to control his breathing. Breathing in and out and doing it again, slowly. It was harder than ever. Sherlock slowly sat down on the soaked grass. He hugged his knees and put his head on them.

 

_“Breathe.”_

 

He heard a voice and stopped breathing. Sherlock knew this voice too well. He could feel the pain spreading in his chest even more, making it harder to breathe.

 

_“It’s ok, you’re fine.”_

 

Sherlock put his head in his hands, trying to shut out the voice. If anything, the voice in his head, the memory, was making it all harder.

 

_“You’re a doctor, you’re supposed to help me.”_

_“I am.”_

 

“You’re not helping.” He whispered to himself. He opened his eyes and looked up at the gravestone, his head still in his hands. “I’m sorry.” He said a bit louder, his voice breaking in the end. Sherlock could feel his eyes slowly welling up with tears. It’s always been like that, but not as bad as this. Sherlock tried getting his breathing even, eventually doing so, but he could still feel his heart beating fast.

After ten minutes or so, he finally calmed down, his heart rate coming back to normal. Sherlock didn’t cry even if he had tears in his eyes. He was looking at the name on the gravestone, controlling his breathing. After a few more minutes, he slowly stood up. Opening the case, he took out the violin, but didn’t dare to start playing.

“I’m sorry, that I’m like this every time.” He was carefully playing with the instrument in his hands. He was looking at the violin, seeing every small detail, every little story the violin held. “It just... happens.” Sherlock continued, his voice was quiet. “Emotions.” He whispered. Then Sherlock took a sharp breath in and looked up. The name on gravestone made him feel weak. But he didn’t show his weakness while he put the violin on his shoulder. “This song… It’s for you.” Sherlock said. He stood silent for a few seconds, then added: “For us.”

Sherlock felt the familiar feeling of shoulder rest against his shoulder. He slowly placed chin on the chin rest. Carefully, he picked up the bow with his right hand. He could feel his hand shake a bit, but Sherlock ignored it and slowly raised his hand with the bow in it. The bow touched the first string and he played the first note. Sherlock made a little pause and started again. This time he played two notes and stopped again. When he started again, he added one more note. After this pause, his song finally started. It was slow, it was telling a story. It felt like a start, an intro to something. And it was. Because after that followed more happier notes. The song became just a little bit quicker with every note. Indeed, it was much happier than before it started. Sherlock knew exactly what this part meant.

 

_“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”_

 

Their first meeting. Sherlock didn’t dare to admit, at least, not until now, that it was the best day of his is life. It was ages ago, but Sherlock always remembered it as if everything happened just yesterday.

 

_“And what’s wrong with the landline?”_

_“I prefer to text.”_

_“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”_

_Sherlock looked back to his microscope but didn’t get a chance to look at anything when he heard the stranger say:_

_“Here. Use mine.”_

_Well, Sherlock didn’t expect that. He was surprised, but his brain quickly worked a polite answer._

_“Oh. Thank you.”_

_He stood up and walked to the newcomer. He glanced at Mike quickly for insurance._

_“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson.” Mike introduce the stranger to Sherlock. Just by walking towards him, he could see that the stranger was a soldier, who has just returned from the war. But from where? As Sherlock took the phone, he turned a bit away from John and started typing on it. Then he asked:_

_“Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

_He didn’t hear a sudden answer, meaning Sherlock surprised him. He didn’t turn to look at him to see John’s reaction, instead he was typing. Finally, he heard the answer._

_“Sorry?” Sherlock turned to look at John and asked again:_

_“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock turned back to the phone and started typing again. John hesitated, but Sherlock knew he interested him already._

_“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?” Sherlock gave back the phone to John and didn’t say anything else. Might as well look mysterious._

 

Small smile appeared on his lips as Sherlock played the first part. Then the song became a bit slower as Sherlock’s fingers slowly glided across the fingerboard. The bow started moving slower across the strings. Lower notes were heard. It was just a little stop, when Sherlock started playing more emotional, higher notes. He slowly lost his smile. Sherlock was more focused than before, he closed his eyes and saw exact memory he put into this song. An anxious feeling crept into him.

 

_“Evening.” This one word turned Sherlock’s whole world around as he turned to see John standing._

 

The betrayal, the sadness he felt in that moment. He put it into this song.

 

_“John.”_

_“This is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” John’s voice was monotone, while his eyes blinked non-stop as if trying to say something, but Sherlock didn’t see anything. Emotions filled him, blinded him and he could only feel betrayal. It felt like a knife to a heart. And it was beating faster than before he walked into the pool._

 

Sherlock’s notes were high, the song got quicker as if he was getting more scared by the second. And Sherlock was scared.

 

_He was scared that he trusted a wrong man. That his only, real friend he every actually had was actually trying to bring him down. Sherlock never really understood what betrayal felt like, but this. This was the moment._

_Until John showed bombs strapped to him._

_Sherlock’s heart dropped, missing one single beat. The emotions he felt just a moment ago were gone. He was scared, but he wasn’t scared for himself anymore._

_John Watson was the one he cared for since then._

 

The song got quicker, Sherlock got to the part where Moriarty is finally revealed. It all runs quickly, ending with a high note. Sherlock stops for a few seconds. Then a slow rhythm starts. It has elements of the previous part, slower and with lower sounds. It grows, when Moriarty leaves. The song is getting quicker every second, as if entering another part of it. And it was a happier part.

Sherlock suddenly played a happier tune, which was quicker than before. This was third part of his song.

Sherlock’s head flooded with memories, happy ones, not so happy ones. Their cases. Any memory, that had John in it.

 

_“Fifty-seven?”_

 

Sherlock’s smile grew a bit bigger. He opened his eyes to look at the gravestone. Then he remembered those little jealous moments. But even the genius can get stupid for some time hence Sherlock not understanding why exactly John was jealous of him and Irene when there was nothing. Irene was more attracted to his brain than Sherlock himself. Besides, she was a lesbian, so what interest could she take in Sherlock?

The happiness continued, with a bit of emotional notes included for a bit sadder parts, but it was their life. Full of everything. Sadness, happiness, madness. Anything.

The tune got slower, more affectionate, a little less happiness than before. It was filled with other emotions. Ones, that weren’t in the song before.

Sherlock reached fourth part. His face dropped a bit. He lost his smile again, he got more serious. This part included Sherlock’s feelings and his questions.

 

_John sat across Sherlock, reading a book. Sherlock was slowly observing him. John probably felt Sherlock’s gaze, as he looked up._

_What Sherlock didn’t expect to see was the warmness in his eyes. And the little smile, which told more than words could._

_Sherlock was taken by surprise. He didn’t expect this, it was something new. But it made his heart beat faster, his breath caught up somewhere, he felt little tingles in his stomach. The little smile made him warm inside. He slowly returned the smile back. John’s grin got bigger. He slowly looked down to read his book again, the smile not leaving his face for a long time._

 

The song was filled with words he couldn’t ever say. With things, he was scared to say. With thoughts, he was too stubborn to act on. Feelings, his mind didn’t let to express. This part was full of it. Sherlock could feel tears in his eyes again. This hurt him. He didn’t get a chance, he couldn’t do it. He was scared to ruin their friendship. It was the best and the most beautiful thing he had and Sherlock didn’t want to lose it. But he wasn’t the only one stopping himself. Because Moriarty couldn’t know about his feelings too.

 

_John was in the kitchen, making tea. Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, but his mind wandered and he lost control. When he turned to look at John, something changed in him. Something made him move. Go over and just do it. But he stopped._

_Sherlock was in the doorway to the kitchen, turned towards John, who had his back on Sherlock, but he obviously could feel his presence. John slowly turned to look at Sherlock, waiting for him to speak or do something. But Sherlock slowly shook his head. This wasn’t right. He couldn’t. So, he slowly turned away and walked out of the kitchen._

 

The song was getting quicker every second, more emotional notes echoing through the whole graveyard. It was getting intense, Sherlock’s hands were moving faster, he could even feel his body move in sync with the song.

 

_Sherlock walked the stairs up. The flat was unusually silent and peaceful. It was afternoon. John never went somewhere at this time, unless he had a date, or he went to shop, or he was working. All of those were impossible, since today John had a day off, he wasn’t dating or Sherlock would have noticed and besides, John only went on dates in the evening. It was also impossible for him to go to the shop since he was there just yesterday._

_What Sherlock didn’t expect was to open the door and see John sleeping on the couch. Sherlock stopped dead in his track. John taking a nap usually indicated he had a bad night sleep because of a nightmare. But he always went to his own room to have a nap. So, if you thought Sherlock was surprised to see John sleeping on their couch, you’re right. He probably stood in the doorway for good ten minutes, just observing._

_What he saw was beautiful. John’s face was relaxed, he looked peaceful and calm. Little wrinkles that John had on his forehead were gone. He looked beautiful and Sherlock couldn’t stop staring at him, he couldn’t bear to tear his eyes away from such a beautiful view. Sherlock’s heart jumped a bit and started beating faster. He felt something towards John. It was pure adoration. Sherlock caught himself thinking, that he wouldn’t mind waking up to this view every morning. No, he would be more than happy._

_It took a little bit of time for Sherlock’s brain to start working again. What he did next, Sherlock himself couldn’t predict that. It was as if his body worked on his own. Sherlock slowly took a blanket and put it over John, making sure it covered all of him. Then he took a few steps back and looked at John again. His heart was beating fast, he could feel warmness in his chest. Small smile appeared on Sherlock’s face as he turned to go to his own room._

 

This happened so long ago. And still, Sherlock could remember it clearly. He could never forget that. It was such a tender moment. And it was the only time he saw John so relaxed and calm.

The song was faster than before, with more high notes. Sherlock expressed all of the words, all emotions he regrets not expressing earlier. He just wishes he was brave enough to be open to everything. But now it’s all too late.

Sherlock suddenly stopped. This is where this part ended. It was longer than previous ones.

Sherlock breathed in once, twice. Then he slowly started playing again. The tune was low, slow, calm. It was calm, but not for long. This part was the last one. This is where it all ended. Where their lives ended.

This is the part, where Sherlock jumped and killed John Watson.

 

_“Hello?” he heard on the other side of the phone. John was already out of the cab and was running away from it._

_“John.” He simply said, but it held so many emotions, that one wouldn’t understand, not if you knew Sherlock._

_“Hey, Sherlock, you ok?” John asked out of breath. Sherlock couldn’t think about anything else except the fact that the plan had to work and that he didn’t have much time left. He breathed in and said:_

_“Turn around and walk back the way you came now.” But John wasn’t listening. He was now walking towards the building Sherlock was standing on._

_“No, I’m coming in.” No, no, no, no, no._

_“Just do as I ask.” He said frantically, his voice shaking. Sherlock was looking down at John, who almost reached the building, but stopped walking. “Please.” He added and John turned around to go away._

 

The song was flowing in slow pace, it was just slowly building up. Sherlock’s hand was slowly moving up and down as the bow moved across the string. The notes were all long and emotional. Sadness was the word that could describe it. Loss. Dread.

 

_“Where?” John asks as he turns to walk back, looking around baffled. Sherlock didn’t say anything, while he waited for John to get back to the right spot. John walked back along the road, when Sherlock spoke urgently._

_“Stop there.” John stopped and looked around. Even from this far Sherlock could tell that John was confused._

_“Sherlock?” John asked._

_“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.” He said, his voice unusually calm. And John turned and he did look up._

_“Oh god.” He simply said. But Sherlock knew his face was full of horror. He knew how terrifying it looks. But he couldn’t tell him anything. He had to keep it secret._

_“I-I can’t come down, so we’ll… we’ll just have to do it like this.” It’s cruel, all of this. What he was doing was cruel. He knew how much it will hurt John. But he didn’t calculate how much._

 

The song was getting a bit quicker, you could only hear sadness in it and know instantly, that something was about to happen. You could just feel it.

 

_“What’s going on?” John’s voice was anxious. His breathing was hard, it was heard on the phone._

_“An apology.” Sherlock stopped. He breathed in, focusing on the task. There was so little time left. “It’s all true.” He tried. He knew it won’t work on John, but he had to try at least._

_“Wh-what?” John’s voice was a bit hysterical, he asked this as if Sherlock was telling him a joke. He was lying, but only for the sake of John. And Sherlock didn’t even know how wrong he was._

 

It was never better for John. What good can it bring if it drives another to such act? Erasing himself from the narrative completely? What good can it bring?

 

_“Everything they said about me.” It was like a knife cutting his heart, because it wasn’t true. He was lying, he hated lying. And now he lied to the person he cared the most in the world. But he would do anything to keep John safe. Even pretend to be dead._

_As he turned to look at Moriarty’s dead body, Sherlock said: “I invented Moriarty.” John’s silence broke something inside Sherlock. John couldn’t even stand still, as he walked few steps back. His chest was heavy, his face was full of disbelief, since he couldn’t understand why Sherlock was saying this._

_“Why are you saying this?” John asked carefully. Sherlock slowly turns back to look at John._

_“I’m a fake.” Sherlock’s voice breaks. He can already feel tears in his eyes. This is not him talking, it won’t work. John won’t believe him._

_“Sherlock…” John’s voice holds a warning. To stop this madness. This is his ‘Not good’ tone. And the thing Sherlock said. He knows it’s ridiculous and not true so why try and convince him?_

_“The newspapers were right all along.” Sherlock’s voice is already tearful, John can hear the tears and knowing that Sherlock is up there, crying for whatever reason, made John feel weak. He wanted go to up there, to go to Sherlock, to do_ something _, that would stop Sherlock saying this. “I want you to tell Lestrade;” Sherlock breathed in. “I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you.” Sherlock stopped and took another, shaky breath. “That I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”_

_John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He hated this. Why is this happening? Why is Sherlock saying all of this stuff? He saw him, John saw Sherlock make deductions. It can’t just be an act._

_“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met...“ John voice was also tearful. Their hearts were beating fast, both scared of what will happen next. “The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”_

_“Nobody could be that clever.” Sherlock was smiling, because he_ knew _John won’t believe him. He wasn’t stupid, but obviously, Mycroft was, for thinking that John will believe such nonsense._

 _“_ You _could.” John said, as Sherlock laughed, looking at John, one tear dripping down from his chin._

 

Sherlock could feel his chest burn with pain, as he reached this part in the song. The song was following these memories in correct pace, not being too late for the events nor being too early. Everything was in perfect sync. These words haunted Sherlock for the past two years he was away and will haunt him forever. The song became much quicker, more high notes echoed through the whole graveyard. Slowly, his mind went back to the moment he was playing right now.

 

_John waited for Sherlock to say something. To tell him that he’s just lying. That all the stuff he’s saying right now is only fooling around. But no similar words came from the other side of the phone. Instead John heard Sherlock say:_

_“I researched you.” Sherlock slightly shook his head._ Lies _. “Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you.“ He was trying to stay calm. To be cool and collected. To not slip. He quietly sniffs. Then he thinks of a way to try and tell John that everything, that is happening right now, is something planned. “It’s a trick.” He says coldly. “Just a magic trick.” John is shaking his head with his eyes closed._

_“No. All right, stop it now.“ John is angry. He‘s tired of this bullshit, of all these lies Sherlock is trying to feed him. He ignores Sherlock and tries to walk towards the hospital._

_“No, stay exactly where you are.” Sherlock says urgently, his voice shaking again. John stops and walks back a few steps. He holds his hand towards Sherlock, to show that he will listen to him and do it. “Don’t move.” He’s running out of time. He needs to finish this. Now._

_“All right.” John answers, but nothing is all right._

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me.” John can hear Sherlock’s rapid breathing. Sherlock himself has stretched his hand out towards John. “Please, will you do this for me?” Sherlock’s voice is frantic, John could hear tears in his voice and he wanted to cry himself. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening._

 

The song became more frantic, playing all the emotions he felt, all the emotions he heard in John’s voice. He played everything.

 

_“Do what?” Instead he asks. In the back of his head, John knows what he will say. And it still hits him hard._

_“This phone call – it’s… it’s my note.” Stop with the lies. “It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” There was so much more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He can’t._

_John shakes his head. He takes his phone away from his ear, as John begins to understand what Sherlock will do. He then raises it again, asking a question, his voice is shaky. He can feel tears and he still doesn’t believe what is about to happen._

_“Leave a note when?”_

_I love you. “Goodbye, John.”_

 

Sherlock suddenly fails one note. He was shaking, his hand was shaking and it was even harder to play. The fact that he failed to play one note the right way, broke him inside and he could feel tears, which were streaming down his face and making everything around him blurry. Sherlock couldn’t see anything properly anymore. But he had to finish the song no matter what. So, Sherlock didn’t stop. He just simply finished the song, with sad and slow notes. The song flowed beautifully as it hit the end. Sherlock didn’t even finish the last note properly, when he broke down completely.

He didn’t know that these will be the last words he would ever say to John. And the fact burned like fire inside him. He couldn’t know. But he could feel it. After some time, Mycroft stopped updating him on John. Whenever Sherlock asked about him, Mycroft would say nothing, just continue with whatever he had to say. Then they lost contact and Sherlock didn’t hear from Mycroft for a long time.

Sherlock fell down to the ground. He put the violin away from him and looked up at the name written on the gravestone, his eyes filled with tears. Sherlock slowly closed them, his head lowered down and he leaned into the gravestone. Finally, he let his walls break and first sob escaped his lips. Then another and another and he couldn’t stop anymore.

His whole chest was heavy with everything. He could feel pain all over it, he couldn’t breathe properly. Sherlock was full of emotions. Rage, loneliness, anger, grief, regret, self-pity, hate, pain, strongest of them all being sadness and love. He couldn’t think about anything else than John. His imagination was working whole speed and images of John’s last moments ran through his head which made him shake violently.

He remembered the time Mycroft told him about what happened. How Sherlock didn’t believe him and he just simply ran back to Baker Street. He ignored scared Mrs. Hudson as he made his way upstairs to find the flat empty. He wasn’t convinced, maybe John got a new flat? He slowly made his way downstairs to find Mrs. Hudson crying. She wasn’t crying because Sherlock was back. Sherlock could see sadness and grief. She only said one word, one name and Sherlock knew. He knew it was true. The truth, the reality really sank in when he saw the gravestone for the first time. He didn’t cry. He didn’t say anything. For the few days, nothing happened. And then he broke down. He felt the worst. But today it was even more worse.

He tried to stop himself, but it was all too strong. Everything was too much. He felt like going crazy.

What Sherlock wanted the most in this moment was to silence everything. To silence his thoughts, his feeling. There were only two things that could do that. One thing he promised to not touch no matter what and other one not being available anymore. No one could help him.

“I’m sorry.” He choked out, his throat felt dry and as if something was in it. “I’m so sorry.” Sherlock whispered and looked up at the name. “Please, forgive me for doing this to you.” He said as if waiting for answer, slowly putting his hand on the gravestone.

He felt pain all over his body, he was shaking uncontrollably and the cold of the ground and damp grass was getting to him even if he didn’t know it.

His heart was the most vulnerable. It was racing as if it was about to jump out of his chest any second now. It broke into million pieces all over again, this time harder than ever. It hurt so much, Sherlock felt like dying. He lowered his head down again and closed his eyes.

Everything was too much. His mind was filled with everything and he couldn’t stop it. He could feel a headache, that grew every few moment. Sherlock was breaking in every way possible, he let his emotions out.

“I tried to get over. To move on. Please, believe me, I did.” He whispered, not looking up this time, his eyes were still closed. “I’m sorry for not being capable of doing that. I’m sorry that I’m like this.” His hand went to hug his knees, leaving the gravestone. He was leaning into it, fully hugging his knees and hiding his face. Sherlock’s sobs slowed down, but they still shook him every now and then. He would whisper something once in a while, it mostly being ‘I’m sorry’.

In the end, his mind broke and he just… stopped. He slowly stopped sobbing, his body stopped shaking. Tears still streamed down his face, but Sherlock couldn’t feel them. He couldn’t feel anything. He was looking into nothing. He didn’t even think about anything. It was all just silent. It was already dark. The night was cold.

 

A black car pulled up next to the gate of the graveyard. A tall figure exited the vehicle and slowly entered the field.  His posture said that he was from high intelligence. It was weird to see him without his umbrella, but he did it. He didn’t need it.

The man slowly made his way towards Sherlock who was leaning into the gravestone. His own heart felt pain seeing his little brother so broken. He stopped when he was right next to Sherlock. Mycroft slowly walked to his brother and put a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock didn’t even react. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t look up at his brother. He completely ignored everything. Mycroft crouched down and slowly ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair in a comforting manner. He used to do it when Sherlock was just a little boy to comfort and calm him down or make him go to sleep faster which always helped.

“Let’s go home.” Mycroft spoke to Sherlock and didn’t receive an answer. He didn’t expect one, but he at least expected for Sherlock to move. But there was nothing. “It’s late.” He stated even if it was obvious. But it wasn’t obvious to Sherlock. “I know it hurts, but please, for your own sake, help me get you back home.” Mycroft could feel himself fill with emotions and he didn’t like the it. He was getting desperate. Sherlock was never so unresponsive. He wasn’t even in his mind palace, because even then there would be something that would have indicated that Sherlock was listening. But today, it was nothing.

Mycroft sighed because there was only one sentence that could bring Sherlock back and he didn’t want to use. He hoped he wouldn’t need to. But nothing was helping, so there was no choice. He silently apologized and spoke:

“Sherlock, you know that John wouldn’t have liked this.”

And he was right. There was a response. From the back of his eyes Mycroft saw Sherlock’s hand twitch a bit. Sherlock’s head twitched too, as if he wanted to turn his head to look at Mycroft but was stopped. That was enough evidence for Mycroft to move. He slowly put his hand on Sherlock hip and put Sherlock’s left hand on his shoulders. They stood up and Mycroft turned to walk. To his surprise, Sherlock was walking normally, but he was also leaning into Mycroft. After some time, Mycroft heard Sherlock’s silent voice say:

“Make it all stop.” that was all he said. Deep sigh escaped Mycroft as they continued to walk towards his car.

“I know you want to.” Mycroft started to say. “But you made a promise.” Sherlock didn’t say anything after this. They finally reached Mycroft’s car and his driver slowly opened the door for them to get in. Mycroft first sat Sherlock down and then got into the car himself. When the car exited the street, Mycroft felt weight on his shoulder. He turned to see Sherlock leaning into him. Mycroft slowly put his hand around Sherlock and hugged him closer to him. Sherlock closed his eyes and they continued their car ride.

When the car stopped, they reached Mycroft’s house. Of course, they couldn’t go to Baker Street. This night was the most dangerous of all. Nobody could look after Sherlock tonight except for Mycroft.

They slowly made their way up to a room, that was specifically made for Sherlock. In fact, he decorated the room himself long time ago. Mycroft left him there to change and get ready for bed. When he came back, Sherlock was already in bed and looking out of the window. Mycroft walked to the bed and sat down. Sherlock instantly turned to face his brother. He closed his eyes while Mycroft put a hand into his hair and slowly ran through it, until Sherlock fell asleep. Mycroft sat there for a bit longer. Just making sure.

After an hour or so, Mycroft slowly walked out of Sherlock’s room. He made his way towards his office. He knew that he won’t sleep today. He couldn’t.

When he sat down into his chair, he looked up at the clock, which showed way past ten. His eyes slowly and carefully made its way down the wall to look at the calendar. Mycroft took a shaky breath, then turned away.

 

The day marked January 29th.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked this and I'm not sorry. What I'm actually sorry about is if characters were OOC
> 
> Please leave a comment, I would like to know what you thought of this!
> 
> (This was inspired by: https://www.instagram.com/p/BSOJeB_hvPl/?taken-by=johnlock.feed )


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